See His Star, Shining Bright
by ImpishTubist
Summary: On Christmas Eve, 2005, Lestrade took a recovering drug addict home to spend the holiday with his family. Thirteen years later, Sherlock finds there are echoes of that first Christmas in one he celebrates with John and their son.


**Disclaimer: **I only own the OCs.

**Beta: **Canon_Is_Relative

**Notes: **This fic is able to stand alone, but it takes place in the "Winter's Child' 'verse. For those curious, the stories in this 'verse are as follows: "Any Given Sunday," "The Worthwhile Things," "Winter's Child," "Burdens of the Father," and "You'll Love Tomorrow."

* * *

><p>There was a woman lying face-up on a blanket of freshly-fallen snow. The flakes continued still, drifting aimlessly through the air as flashes of blue light from the police cars lit upon her translucent skin. The snow dotted her cheeks and turned her eyelashes frosty, and the empty blue eyes that stared at the darkening sky were cloudy with death and ice.<p>

Tiny crimson droplets were smattered on the snow around her, so tiny and sharp that they might have been rubies scattered on an ivory quilt.

Bells from a nearby church began to chime, signaling the start of a Christmas Eve service.

xxxx

"Do you have somewhere to go?" Lestrade asked as the scene around him slowly started to clear. Their unfortunate victim was on her way to Bart's, and Molly Hooper's morgue.

Sherlock's eyes were dark when he stared at Lestrade, and the DI couldn't tell whether it was from the night or due to recent drug use. He didn't answer Lestrade's question, but then he didn't leave, either. Lestrade sighed, and lowered his voice even though the rest of his team were several paces away and out of earshot.

"Are you clean?"

There was another lengthy pause – and then Sherlock broke his gaze, glancing at the ground.

"I haven't been using."

"Been rough?"

"The work helps."

Lestrade nodded to himself - and oh, his wife was going to kill him.

"Come back with me tonight."

Sherlock stiffened. "You made it perfectly clear that I wasn't to be near your flat, much less your wife and child."

"You aren't allowed in my flat _without an invitation _until you get clean," Lestrade corrected. "Yes, I know. But it's Christmas, Sherlock."

The detective snorted. "How wonderfully clichéd of you, Lestrade. And I thought you above such banalities. How foolish of me."

"You're going to come back with me," Lestrade said firmly, because Sherlock's cheekbones were dangerously sharp and even buried in his great coat there were tremors running through his frame. There were pools of purple under his eyes as well, and they made him look ill. "We'll get you cleaned up, and you'll come to the Christmas Eve service with us."

"In exchange for what?" Sherlock snapped, though Lestrade suspected it was more for appearance's sake than anything else. Had to make it look like he put up a bit of a fight, and went grudgingly. But Lestrade was a father, and not fooled. Sherlock was tempted by the offer.

"A hot meal; a bed for a few nights." Lestrade stuffed his hands in his pockets. Christ, was it cold. "Jack. So come on. It's bloody freezing out here. Let's go home."

xxxx

The flat was dark when they arrived, and a note from Cheryl on the counter told Lestrade that his wife had stepped out with Jack for some last-minute ingredients for dinner. They would be returning within the hour.

"Bathroom's just down the hall," Lestrade said to Sherlock as they shrugged out of their coats, and then added, "Well, s'pose you already knew that, didn't you? You broke in here often enough, at least. There are fresh towels in there already. Go on."

Sherlock disappeared into the bathroom and Lestrade went to his closet, digging around for shirts that no longer fit and which he had been able to keep from his wife's cleaning sprees. There were two that had survived with him since university days, he discovered, and one that looked small enough in the shoulders to fit Sherlock. It wasn't his usual style – a button-down, yes, but hardly one with a hefty price tag. It was clean, though, and neat, and would have to do for now. Lestrade supposed that the trousers the detective had been wearing would have to do, and his shoes were smart enough. Lestrade dug through his drawers until he found a small undershirt he wouldn't mind parting with and presented the outfit as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, dressed once again but hair damp from the shower.

"Here, change into these," he said. "And give me your old shirt; we'll get it washed for you tonight."

Sherlock, to his surprise, acquiesced without a word of protest.

xxxx

There were many reasons why Lestrade had married Cheryl – too many to list, in all honesty. But she was level-headed to the very last, almost unflappable, and when she walked into the flat with their son that evening to find the drug-addict who had a habit of breaking and entering at all hours sitting at the kitchen table with her husband, she did nothing more than lift an eyebrow and say, "Happy Christmas, Sherlock. I hope you're hungry. We've got enough food to feed an army for a week."

Before Sherlock could answer, however, Jack cried, _"Sher'ock!"_and ran on legs made stiff by all his winter layers over to the seated man. Sherlock leaned down automatically to catch the barreling three-year-old, and Jack's arms went around Sherlock's neck as he pressed his face into the fabric of his shirt, delivering an exuberant, if clumsy, hug.

"Hello, Jack," Sherlock greeted quietly, one hand resting flat on the child's back, and Lestrade could have sworn that he saw the detective's other hand brush through Jack's dark hair.

"Come here, Jacky," Cheryl said as she set the shopping on the table. "Let's get you out of these clothes, and then you can say hi to him properly."

"Thank you," Lestrade murmured to Cheryl later as he helped her assemble the salad. Jack was in the other room, having dragged Sherlock away to show off his train set.

"I'm sure you have your reasons for bringing him around," she said diplomatically. "Is he -?"

"Yeah, he's clean. Whether he'll stay that way is another matter, but he's got nothing on him and he hasn't been using recently."

"Fine," she said briskly. "That's good enough for me. Should I make up the spare room for him?"

Lestrade nodded, relieved, and kissed her on the cheek.

Behind them, Jack let out a shriek of laughter, and Sherlock's quiet voice instructed, "No, Jack, it would be more efficient to place the track around the table. Yes, like that. Then your trains can avoid running into obstacles."

xxxx

The minister started his Christmas Eve sermon about halfway through the service – his words clipped and dull, having already delivered the speech at two earlier services. He began with a weak anecdote, moved onto a stale joke that sent a ripple of indulgent chuckles throughout the sanctuary, and then finally got around to tying his story into Scripture. Sherlock was no longer listening at that point, and, having already deduced all he cared to know about the man – married, two children, though the marriage was rocky going by the state of his wedding band and his shoes – was considering whether there was a way he could safely slip away unnoticed.

Or noticed, even – the sanctuary was far more crowded than he cared for, and he was tucked in the middle of a pew with Lestrade on one side and strangers on the other. He was being assaulted by scents from all sides, and each creak of a pew or cough or scrape of feet on the wooden floors grated on his nerves. The woman in front of him was married; the man to her right was her brother and fighting a gambling problem. Two pews ahead was a man with a drinking problem, and the man sitting on Sherlock's left was having an affair with his secretary.

It was maddening, being surrounded on all sides and forced to _notice _everything. He couldn't stop it, couldn't turn it off, couldn't even –

"Hey," Lestrade said in an undertone, and Sherlock jumped. "You all right?"

Sherlock nodded stiffly.

"You don't look well."

"Fine," Sherlock muttered in as level a voice as he could manage. Lestrade, thankfully, let it go. He straightened and, after a moment, put an arm around his wife's shoulders. Between them, Jack was growing restless – he was becoming bored with sketching in the program and was now looking around, making noises about leaving.

"Shh, Jacky," Lestrade murmured, bending over so his lips were by his son's ear. "Not yet. Soon."

"Wanna go _now_," Jack whispered back. The man to Sherlock's left glanced at them and then turned his attention back to the service, but not without first clearing his throat in what Sherlock could only assume was disapproval, though he could not understand why Jack warranted such a reaction. He was only three years old, and this was hardly a stimulating environment for a child, especially one with as much potential as Jack displayed.

Jack slid off the pew and sidled around his father's legs. Lestrade took his hand, leaning over to murmur, "Hey, where are you going, sunshine?"

The boy held out a hand to Sherlock; Lestrade let him go, exchanging a surprised look with the detective. Sherlock glanced back down at Jack, who was standing at his knees, one hand still held out to him, looking expectant. Sherlock put both hands under the boy's armpits and lifted him easily; Lestrade scooted closer to Cheryl so that Jack could settle between him and Sherlock. But Jack wasn't satisfied when Sherlock set him on the pew, and the moment he was released he crawled on top of Sherlock's thighs and settled in his lap.

Lestrade coughed, though Sherlock was almost positive he was covering a laugh and he turned to scowl at the man. Jack leaned against Sherlock's stomach, his head resting over the other man's heart, and dug a fist into his shirt, sighing happily. Sherlock snaked his left arm around Jack's body, holding him in place.

"Good?" Sherlock asked him, dipping his head so that only Jack would hear. The boy nodded.

Behind them, there was a shuffling of feet as the choir got to its feet and the sermon concluded. They launched into a spirited, if slightly off-key, rendition of a Rutter piece, and Cheryl discreetly wiped a thumb across her eye.

_See his star shining bright_

_In the sky this Christmas Night!_

The man next to Sherlock, taking advantage of the sudden music, chose that moment to murmur, "Bloody kid," under his breath.

"I would be careful about talking about him in such a manner," Sherlock said quietly, leaning over so that he was hissing in the man's ear, "unless you would like your wife to find out about – Amanda, is it? Ashley? Something with an _A_, at least."

The man stiffened and, Sherlock saw with a glance out of the corner of his eye, flushed a deep red. But he said nothing further, and Sherlock smirked to himself while Jack made a grab for his hand. He curled his fingers around the boy's small hand and Jack looked up at him expectantly. Sherlock understood the unspoken request in his eyes, and ducked his head so that Jack could whisper in his ear.

"Happy Chris'mas."

Sherlock pulled back in surprise, and was met with a wide grin on the boy's face.

"Happy Christmas, Jack," he murmured in response as the music swelled around them. Lestrade squeezed his shoulder. Cheryl sniffed, and finally dove for her husband's handkerchief.

_Christ is come, bringing promises of salvation;_

_Hurry to Bethlehem and see the son of Mary!_

It had started to snow again at some point during the service, and when they emerged from the small church great fat flakes were drifting in lazy circles to the ground.

"Snow!" Jack exclaimed in delight as they started down the pavement, heading back toward Lestrade's flat.

"I didn't know we were going to get more snow tonight," Lestrade mused aloud. Cheryl linked her arm through his. Sherlock trailed a few steps behind the couple and Jack ran ahead. "Jacky, not too far! Stay close to us."

The boy doubled back and grabbed his hand, tugging on it insistently. "Fly!"

"Not just now, Jack," Lestrade said with a small smile. Sherlock frowned. He was accustomed to de-coding the child's words, but even he could not fathom what _fly _meant.

"Please?" the boy begged. He inserted himself between both his parents and grabbed Cheryl's hand as well. "Up?"

"No, sweetie," Cheryl said finally, squeezing his hand. "Mummy's tired. We'll fly another time."

Jack twisted his head around to look at Sherlock; his parents followed his gaze.

And Sherlock wasn't sure what possessed him to say it, but he found himself taking a step forward and saying, "I'm not tired."

Cheryl arched an eyebrow at him and then exchanged a look with her husband, who looked – _smug_. Sherlock couldn't decipher the silent conversation that passed between them, but Cheryl released Jack's hand and Lestrade said, "Take his other hand, Sherlock. We're going to swing him between us. Every couple of steps. Think you can handle that?"

Sherlock scowled at the light sarcasm but obliged, taking Jack's gloved hand in his and cautiously returning the boy's smile.

"Just follow my lead," Lestrade said, and they set off again. "Ready? And – up!"

Jack soared, giggling in delight.

The snow continued to fall.

xxxx

Sherlock stood in the kitchen, head hung low over the sink as his fingertips dug into the countertop, as though this slippery purchase was the only thing holding him upright.

In all honesty, this was probably true.

The flat was dark save for the watery glow in the living room from the streetlamp just outside the windows. He could pick out the even breathing from Lestrade's room and a faint shuffling from Jack's as the boy tossed in his sleep, covers whispering as they brushed against the mattress. The neighbor upstairs was pacing - _waiting for a phone call; wife's out of town, tending to a sick family member; he's waiting for news_- and the occupant of the flat next door had left the television on, tuned to an infuriating game show with _bells _and _whistles _and inane chatter that filled his brain with white noise, all of it useless and relentless and _pounding_-

Sherlock didn't realize his legs had given out until he blinked open aching eyes and saw that he was staring at one of the wooden chairs that sat around Lestrade's kitchen table. Seated on the floor, he curled up into as small of a ball as he could manage, legs drawn up to his chest and palms of his hands pressed against his eyes, trying to block out the relentless _noise -_

"Hey."

A warm weight settled on his arm, and Sherlock started, scooting several centimeters away before he registered Lestrade's voice and hand.

"Christ," Lestrade breathed wearily. "That's the second time I've startled you. Must be bad tonight, that mind of yours."

Sherlock didn't say anything to that because the words wouldn't come. His jaw was locked and they lodged in the back of his throat, each idea clamoring for attention and finding no outlet. His mind was unfocused and running in every direction at once and _how could they stand this? _How could people deal with minds that didn't quiet?

_They don't have them._

But he did. _Bloody hell_, did he ever, and the drugs had helped. They had kept the tedium at bay and narrowed his focus down to a single point, white-hot and blazing, and one that he could direct all of his energy towards. It had been _glorious_, that control. Cases brought about the same result, but now he had neither. There was only this flat and this darkness and this _noise_and nothing to distract him from this _dullness_-

"Sherlock." A hand pressed into his shoulder, shaking him. "Sherlock, focus."

_Sod off_, he tried to say, but all that came out was, "Ngh."

There was a sigh, and then Lestrade said, "Two, three, five."

"What?" he managed to mumble as the numbers penetrated the fog of his mind. _two three five two three five green yellow blue._

"Tell me the next three numbers."

_two three five...ah. simple. elegant. primes._

"Seven, eleven, thirteen," he said at last.

"Good. Now the next three."

"Seventeen, nineteen, twenty-three."

Rough hands wrapped around his upper arms, hauling him to his feet and pressing him back against the counter. Lestrade's hands and the unyielding marble were the only things holding him upright, and the strain of this showed in Lestrade's voice when he said, "Good. All the way up to sixty-seven. Let's go."

"Twenty-nine, thirty-one, thirty-seven, forty-one, forty-three, forty-seven, fifty-three, fifty-nine, sixty-one, sixty-seven," Sherlock finished off, more of his thoughts snapping into some semblance of order. "Child's play, Lestrade."

"Good to have you back with us," Lestrade said dryly. "Can you stand?"

Sherlock tested it - and yes, he could. His legs were wobbly, but sure enough. Lestrade released him.

"Bit better than the drugs, wouldn't you say?" he said quietly.

Sherlock sniffed. "Doesn't last nearly as long."

Lestrade didn't respond to that, but his voice was tight when he said, "I'm going back to bed. I suggest you do the same - or, at the very least, stop having breakdowns on my kitchen floor. G'night, Sherlock."

The legs that carried Sherlock to the spare bedroom were shaky, and he stretched out face-down on the bed, elbows tucked into his chest and face pressed into the pillow. It smelled faintly of detergent and Cheryl's perfume, indicating that she was the one who had put the bed together, but there was nothing else his mind gathered from the object, and Sherlock breathed a soft sigh. There was nothing to notice, nothing to observe - it was just a pillow.

He fell into an unintentional sleep, for when he next became aware of himself the atmosphere of the room had changed. Silent before, it had now taken on a stillness indicative of the deepest part of night - four in the morning, Sherlock estimated.

He could feel that the bed had changed, and after a moment he realized that there was a slight dip in the mattress near his right hip. It was too slight to be an adult, and the soft, "Sher'ock?" confirmed his suspicions as to who exactly was sitting on the bed.

"Jack," he said without opening his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Why clothes?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled over onto his back. Jack was sitting cross-legged next to him, his stuffed bear held close to his chest. His dark sleep-tumbled hair fell in disarray across his forehead, and Cheryl had dressed him in a pair of outrageous red pajamas - no doubt to fit with the conventional color scheme of the holiday season. Sherlock felt his lip curl in distaste.

"I believe you mean, _why do you still have clothes on?_" Sherlock corrected. Really, the grammatical mistakes Lestrade allowed his child to get away with were _appalling_.

Jack blinked at him, and Sherlock sighed.

"I didn't intend to fall asleep, so there was no point in changing." Sherlock glanced at the clock on the bedside table: _4:58_. "Why are you awake?"

"s'Christmas," Jack said quietly, as though disappointed that Sherlock had not been immediately aware of the significance of the date.

"I did not realize that the occurrence of the twenty-fifth of December was cause for waking up at what's generally considered a wholly indecent hour."

"What?"

"Never mind." Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows to consider Jack from a better angle. Lestrade and Cheryl would likely not wake for some hours yet, and Sherlock was ill-equipped to put Jack back to bed - not to mention the fact that it was hardly his responsibility to do so, and it wasn't a concern of his whether Jack got to sleep or not.

Except that, inexplicably, it was. Jack exhausted was not something he was fond of, though he couldn't say exactly why that was the case. It was utterly irrational, as he was neither the child's father nor a blood relative of any kind and therefore, Jack's well-being should not matter to him.

But it did.

"You should go back to bed," Sherlock said finally. Perhaps Jack would listen him simply because they weren't related; it was Sherlock's experience that children of Jack's age were not likely to follow the instructions of parents but would listen to those they considered _friends_, although the definition of that term was a loose one.

"No," Jack said softly, and then added, "Please?"

_Oh, hell_.

"What would you like to do?" Sherlock found himself asking.

Even in the darkened room, he saw Jack's face brighten.

xxxx

Lestrade woke in the morning before Cheryl, and turned his head to glance at the clock. He blinked a few times, scrubbed at his eyes, and then looked again.

_Seven-thirty?_

He couldn't recall, in the past three years, any time he had slept past five on Christmas morning. He strained his ears, listening – but no, it didn't sound as though Jack was awake.

Lestrade clambered out of bed and reached for his dressing gown, hanging on a chair near the bed, and dragged it on over his shoulders as he trudged from the room. He padded through the kitchen and into the living room, and stopped dead at the sight that met his eyes.

Sherlock was seated on the floor in front of the sofa, cross-legged, with Jack in his lap. He had a book open and was reading aloud from it - a non-fiction tome about World War II, near as Lestrade could figure out. As he watched, Jack tugged one corner of the book from Sherlock's grip and flipped through the pages until he got to one with photographs on it.

"Boom!" he announced happily, pointing to a picture.

"Yes," Sherlock said solemnly, "that is quite the explosion. Though I doubt that was what it sounded like."

"Hello, lads," Lestrade murmured, making his presence known, and two heads snapped toward him. Sherlock's mouth thinned, and the tips of his ears grew red. Jack's face split into a wide smile, and he waved enthusiastically at his dad.

"Readin' a story!" he announced happily.

"Yes, I can see that," Lestrade said, amused. "Did you have a good sleep?"

"Yeah!" Jack said. "Presents now?"

"We're gonna wait 'til mum's awake, okay, sunshine?" Lestrade said, and Jack nodded. Sherlock carefully removed the boy from his lap, and handed him the book.

"Here," he said softly, turning to a new page of photographs. "You can continue without me. I'll be back."

"I hope he didn't wake you," Lestrade said, moving into the kitchen as Sherlock followed him.

"He did," Sherlock said. And then, in a slightly perplexed voice, "I can't say that I minded, however."

"Well, that's good, I suppose. Hazards of living with a young child. You'll be up at the crack of dawn on Christmas." Lestrade put on the kettle. "I'm assuming you'd like tea? The usual?"

"You don't like Earl Grey," Sherlock pointed out.

"Cheryl does, so we have some in stock," Lestrade lied. In truth, he always made sure they had a box of the stuff in the flat, on the off-chance that Sherlock would be by. He had been banned, yes, until he got clean, but Lestrade always hoped that a day like this would come – Sherlock standing in his kitchen, clean, finally getting on the right track in his life.

Lestrade wasn't a fool, however, no matter what Sherlock liked to believe, and knew that this was an Indian summer of sorts. Sherlock would slip up again. For all his protestations otherwise, he was still just a man, and a man battling addiction all by himself. There was only so much willpower he could exert over it.

Perhaps, one day, it would get better. Perhaps it would get to the point where Lestrade could trust him fully, and he could step in and pick up where Sherlock left off. He wasn't going to leave Sherlock to tackle this battle alone; that much he knew. But for now, this first step – this needed to be Sherlock's fight.

xxxx

Cheryl rose half an hour later to find Sherlock and Lestrade at the kitchen table and Jack entertaining himself with his foam blocks, building a complex fort on the living room floor. Sherlock pushed back his chair and stood as soon as he saw her, and Lestrade recognized from his posture and uncertainty that he was about to make sounds about leaving. Lestrade was about to insist that he stay when Cheryl, ever the mind-reader, stepped in and said, "Stay, Sherlock, please. Jack would enjoy it."

Oh, she was _good_.

The small family opened presents not long after that, and Jack insisted on sitting Sherlock's lap throughout, tearing through his wrapping with zeal. Once in a while Sherlock needed to lend a hand with the ribbons, and ended up with a bow stuck on top of his head for his efforts.

"Oh, and here," Cheryl said later, when all of Jack's presents had been exhausted, and pulled a package Lestrade hadn't noticed out from under her chair. "This one's for Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked at her, drawn out of his thoughts at the sound of his name. "Sorry?"

"This is for you," she repeated, handing it to Lestrade to pass over to Sherlock. "Sorry it's not much, but – well – wasn't exactly sure what to get you, to be honest. So I went practical. Hope you don't mind."

Sherlock peeled away the wrapping paper with more care than Lestrade would have expected, and pulled out a blue scarf. His lips parted in what Lestrade could only describe as surprise, and he ran the soft material through his hands, considering it.

"Thought you could use one, when you're out working those crime scenes in the cold. Never have seen you wear one, and you'll catch pneumonia if you're not careful," Cheryl added, smiling around her mug as Sherlock continued to look dumbfounded. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded tightly at her, swallowing visibly, and Lestrade understood it as a heartfelt thanks.

"When did you get that?" Lestrade asked, leaning over as Jack became enthralled with Sherlock's scarf and grabbed one end in both of his hands. Sherlock indulged him with a small quirk of his mouth, and looped it around Jack's neck.

"Yesterday afternoon," Cheryl answered.

"But you didn't even know he was coming over 'til you arrived home."

"No," Cheryl said, smirking. "I knew well before that."

"How? _I _didn't even know."

"Because you're too kind, Greg," she said softly, leaning over to kiss him on the nose. "I knew."

xxxx

"So where are you staying now?" Lestrade asked Sherlock later, when Cheryl and Jack were in the living room playing with Jack's new trains and Lestrade was in the kitchen, cleaning up from breakfast. Sherlock had followed him under the pretense of more tea.

"Montague Street. I've found a flat."

"Decent?" Lestrade asked, handing him a freshly-steaming mug of tea.

"Yes."

Lestrade nodded. "All right. And how long have you been off the drugs?"

"My last hit was two weeks ago," Sherlock said, lifting the mug and taking a sip.

"Do you think it'll last?"

"No."

"But you want it to," Lestrade pressed. Sherlock's lips disappeared into a thin line.

"I have found," he said tightly, "that simply because I want something to be true does not make it the case. Contrary to popular belief, I am not –"

He broke off suddenly, drawing a sharp breath through his nose. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and controlled. "I am fine, so long as there is the work. Without that, my mind will rot."

"Well, I can't go around arranging interesting murders for you," Lestrade said dryly. "But you will beat this, Sherlock, if that's what you really want. We'll get you through this."

_"We?" _Sherlock said before he could help himself, surprised, and Lestrade saw him recoil at the word, as though mortified that it had slipped from his lips.

"Yeah," Lestrade murmured, reaching out to grip his arm briefly before moving back to the dishes. "It's all right, lad. I've got you."

xxxx

Sherlock was sitting in the living room of 221b, in the old rocker Mrs. Hudson had given him and John on the day of their son's birth. Steel-grey light from the approaching dawn filtered in through the windows and Calvin was perched on his lap, entertaining himself with his stuffed elephant while Sherlock rocked. Every now and again the three-year-old's gaze strayed to the tree John had erected in the corner, and Sherlock quietly reminded him, "Presents later, Cal. When Papa's awake."

"When?"

"Soon," Sherlock said, though that was quite probably a lie. John had slumbered through Calvin's intrusion into their bed and, given that he'd gotten home late the night before after a fourteen-hour shift, would likely be sleeping for some time yet.

"But s'Chris'mas," Calvin mumbled. Sherlock held back a sigh; they were already nearing the bottom of the list of ways he knew how to distract his son, and no amount of coaxing was going to get Calvin to go back to sleep. Sherlock's gaze fell on the bookshelf on the other side of the room, where picture books had slowly started to accumulate between his scientific tomes and John's medical texts. He couldn't spot one that they hadn't read to Calvin at least three times, so he moved onto his own collection of books. Perhaps Calvin would, if nothing else, enjoy looking at the pictures -

- And then his eye fell on the book Lestrade had given him a decade ago, after Jack had been eulogized and buried.

_He adored this book, thanks to you. Couldn't understand a word of it and spent most of his time looking at the pictures, but I still think it was his favorite._

"Calvin," Sherlock said finally, digging his mobile of his pocket and scrolling through his contacts, "how would you like to tell Uncle Greg 'Happy Christmas'?"

He waited until Lestrade picked up his mobile with a sleep infused, "Hello?" before pressing the phone against Calvin's ear.

"Hi," Calvin said shyly, taking the phone from his father and holding it to his face with both hands. Sherlock heard, faintly, Lestrade's upbeat reply, and while they chatted Sherlock tipped his face toward the ceiling, resting his head against the back of the rocker as his thoughts wandered.

Calvin's first Christmas had marked a decade since that first one Sherlock had spent with Lestrade's family, but Sherlock couldn't recall feeling anything in particular on that day. He had noted its significance and moved on, more focused on his young son than he was on the past.

But now, this morning - this Christmas it felt as though someone was standing on his chest, constricting his lungs and preventing him from drawing proper breath. It had been especially apparent when he'd first woken to Calvin sitting on their bed, cross-legged and expectant, a stuffed animal clutched in his arms - so much so that Sherlock's heart had shuddered to a painful stop for the briefest of moments, and it took John's solid form beside him to remind him of exactly where he was and when. And now the ugly feeling resurfaced, coiling around his heart and holding on tight, as his gaze was drawn once again to the book he had read to Jack that Christmas morning.

Jack would have been sixteen this December.

Calvin twisted his head to grin up at his dad about something Lestrade had said, but an abrupt frown cut through his features.

"Daddy's crying," he announced to the mobile in confusion. Sherlock blinked, perplexed, and pressed the fingertips of his free hand against his face. They came away wet, and he scarcely had time to contemplate this before the mobile was being pushed back into his hand and Calvin was saying, "Here, daddy."

"You all right, sunshine?" Lestrade asked in a low voice that was laced with concern.

Sherlock gave a choked laugh.

"You were right, you know," he said roughly, brushing a hand over the back of Calvin's head. The boy, reassured, snuggled happily against his side. "Hazards of living with a young child. You'll be up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning."

They sat in silence for a few moments, each listening to the other's ragged breathing whisper across the line, until Lestrade finally said, in a tightly-controlled voice, "I'll see you all tomorrow. Give Cal my love."

"Greg," Sherlock said. "I'm sor –"

The word died on his lips.

"Yeah," Lestrade said tightly, "so am I. _Christ._"

Sherlock swiped a thumb across Calvin's cheek; his son leaned into the touch. Over the mobile, Lestrade let out a rush of breath that was partly a laugh and mostly a whimper.

"Happy Christmas, eh?"

"Yeah," Sherlock whispered, squeezing his free hand into a fist so tight that his nails left behind crescents on his palms. Calvin stared up at him with wide, curious eyes, and he leaned down to press his lips to the top of his son's head. "Happy Christmas."

xxxx

Final Notes: The music that plays during the church service is John Rutter's "Star Carol," which is also where this fic gets its title.

xxxx


End file.
